Qeya River I was following the pack

Finally home, he feels as though he can finally breathe once again. He can go back to his lake, back to his endless thoughts.

Lately his head has been far too clear; he can't stand it. It makes it difficult to grasp his visions, to sit still without a sense of paranoia overtaking him.

With a breath let go, his decision is made.

Soon he will travel to the coast. The herbs that the old man's strangely close friend used to treat him, he needs to find them again. Nothing else can make him feel this way.

He wants to take them again, to be able to serve Saatsine as their ghost talker with full confidence.

blackfell hadn't yet seen this wolf. he had thought he had familiarized himself with most of the faces thus far—apparently he was wrong.

from where he was seated at the edge of the winding, frigid river, he watches as the yearling moves closer into the territory. his rounded ears twitching, swiveling towards the sound of crunching pawsteps; nostrils flaring as he sniffs at his scent carried on the winter wind.

curious.

he doesn't approach, doesn't say anything, but he is staring.